


Responsibility

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Torture, Multi, Psychological Torture, set Abundance on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor is sitting at the Noctian Council meeting, musing on things. He cannot run away from his past, but he doesn't try.





	1. Chapter 1

The Council is a strange entity. Viktor cannot get used to it: he expects that any moment now he’d have to untangle plots, or listen to nothing but dusty promises and empty words — or at least, he’d spot someone nodding off. None of that ever comes.

The Assembly is— was — full of petty squabbles, so easy to threaten, manipulate, blackmail — so _easy_. In Ophir, to get his way in, say, healthcare legislation, he’d have to bribe three people.

In Noctis, he’d have to bribe the whole city, because Noctis is the Council.

Or, he’d simply have to bring the matter before the Council.

He doesn’t know how it works. It is a different way of thinking, he supposes, the “you are personally responsible” that he’s heard from the Prince and others so many times now. Personal responsibility extending beyond one’s self and the threshold of one’s house.

He had, himself, taken responsibility for his whole Corporation — and where did that lead?..

He doesn’t know why they invite him to attend the Council meetings. He has no stomach for politics. He is so tired all the time, years of little rest catching up with him.

But today, with the Prince absent, there is a difference.

It is not because the Prince is only a nominal leader, and not because the Prince is the power in Noctis. He can’t even open official letters without at least three Council members present.

But his absence is palpable.

Viktor closes his eyes and listens to Noctis.

***

The road to Noctis had been terrible, with him going through withdrawal. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from pointing out at the shadow sitting right across him in the rover.

In the rover, he had found out that Colonel— No, just Ian Mancer now. That Ian had threatened the whole of Assembly when he had found Viktor had been forcibly medicated. That something in the court room blew up when Ian had found that his jaw had been broken when he had tried to put up resistance.

Viktor didn’t remember much — tried not to recall it. He _had_ been trained to work under torture, pain, to resist the influence of the truth serum (a whole range of them) — but they had broken his jaw and… He didn’t remember the talk — which indicated they had used SP-113 on him. But he had woken up after the “interrogation” hearing screams and feeling like he was being choked and there had been a weight on his chest and he couldn’t move and…

They had kept him sedated after the first psychotic episode.

He could barely walk to the court room the first time he had been called.

Apparently, that had been why Ian had gotten suspicious and had demanded to find out how he had been treated.

Riding in the rover — a smooth ride, but with sweat rolling down his neck, though the guards, or whatever they were, didn’t look in any way uncomfortable…

He had to close his eyes tight to gather his thoughts in order again.

He wished they had sedated him again.

By the time Anton had gone to the court, Viktor had been sober enough to remember it. It had been _brilliant_. Viktor had been in so much pain, the whole weight of Mars on his chest — but it had done nothing to squeeze the life out of pride at hearing Anton’s speech.

And something had been happening behind the scenes. He couldn’t… He hadn’t cared.

And then they had announced the verdict.

When he had been arrested, he had decided right away what he would chose. He’d prefer a firing squad — or an injection, whatever would be deemed more suitable — to lifetime imprisonment. A coward’s choice, perhaps.

The pain in his chest, in his heart and lungs, wouldn’t stop after the polar fight.

He didn’t want to end up a sorry wreck, wasting away, or worse, even if he deserved it.

But something had happened. And his sentence had been something he didn’t understand even now. And he didn’t understand why he was being brought to Noctis.

He was nudged to the shoulder. Apparently, they had arrived — maybe to the place of his execution? Maybe the sentence was a joke of sorts?

They could drag him out by the poles attached to his collar (his neck was so raw from it, but it was just one thing among many and didn’t bother him much). He was glad they didn’t.

He shuffled out — the mechanics of getting out were quite complex when one was chained at the wrists and ankles and guided with poles at the collar. One of the guards helped him get off the step of the rover — Viktor nearly admonished them for getting too close to a prisoner.

There was a line of people, but holding his chin up was so difficult. The prison medics had done a bad job patching up his jaw, and although the thick collar had allowed some support, it was not his brace.

He stumbled and went down, trying to stop the fall with his hands — forgetting they were bound. His knees were somewhat cushioned by the sand.

“Viktor Watcher?”

He forced himself to sit on his haunches and at least straighten his back. Look up.

The one towering over him… Viktor knew he was the head of Noctis, the Prince. He didn’t look any different than other merchants.

A handsome man, however.

“Yes,” Viktor forced himself to say. He didn’t know why the question had been asked. Theatrics, perhaps.

He knew more about Aurora, about technomancers, than about Noctis.

The man had green eyes.

“Are you aware that your Corporation has given you to Anton Rogue?”

“I am his, body and soul,” he managed. Why was all this? “To do with me as he pleases.”

The Prince stroked his chin. It bore a tattoo. “We talked with Anton. You are in Noctis now, and bound by Noctian law.”

“Wherever Anton wants me.”

The Prince circled him and the guards holding the poles, and Viktor tensed up, just on instinct, because someone standing behind him was…

He startled when hands fell on his shoulders.

“There is one specific law in Noctis,” the Prince said from behind him, and the hands moved to the collar. “There will be no slaves in Noctis, and as long as I breathe, I will make it so.” He felt a slight tug at the collar — and then creaking of metal — and the collar was gone. “You are a free man, Viktor.”

Viktor stayed on his knees while the Prince of Noctis tore off the bindings on his wrists, and got up with the Prince’s help so that his ankles could be freed, too.

Kindness was cruelty.

***

They brought him to the medics immediately — and Anton was there, so pale and so…

They put him on a cot and hooked him to things, and Anton was there, holding his hand because Viktor couldn’t force himself to stop crying from fear and the things that were lurking in the corners. The medics told him everything that would happen to him, and _Anton was there_ , and holding his hand, and they waited and waited for his answer, and he said yes, and Anton held his hand while he floated under.

He wanted to never wake up.

Maybe that was that.

But he did wake up, slowly, with no horrors waiting in the corner, to Anton curled up in a chair.

The weight gone from Viktor’s chest, a small implant in it forcing his heart to work properly.

They had fixed his jaw and throat, too. It was not wholly synthetic — it was a jaw bone of someone called Artair, modified specifically to become a prosthetic.

He tried a few syllables that he couldn’t say since Anton had broken his jaw all those years ago. And they came up somewhat mangled, but… recognizable.

Anton was there.

***

He floats out of memories when Anton walks into the chamber the Council has been using for the meeting this time, one of the guards walking by Anton’s side with a pronounced limp.

The meeting goes quiet.

Vik sits up.

Anton looks over the assembled Council, his gaze stopping briefly on Vik. Then he finds Melvin Mancer. “The Prince’s caravan has been taken by the ASC.”

A moment of silence — but it stretches and stretches, despite Vik’s expectation that the Council would erupt.

Anton goes round the hall until he stands between the Council and Vik, plants himself firmly. Vik wants to tell him that he doesn’t need this — but Tosha has been ever so stubborn. “If anyone even _thinks_ of hurting Vik over this, they will have to go through me.” Anton says it so simply, so certainly.

Nobody moves.

“It is _his_ organization,” a quiet voice says, and the chamber carries it well. Melvin Mancer steps forward just as Vik rises to his feet.

The technomancer is terrible to look at, so very still.

Vik stands beside Anton. “It was. And I made it strong, and it attracted very particular personalities.” He doesn’t look away from Melvin.

He will never be able to repay in full, and he doesn’t seek absolution — there is none for him. To take the whole universe and gather every particle of mercy — and even that wouldn’t be enough. _“You are personally responsible.”_ And he is personally responsible for all that he has done, and everything that was done at his orders, at his encouragement — but he is responsible for trying to make it better, too. As much as that is even possible.

“All the camps have been razed,” Melvin says. He is utterly still — but sparks are running up and down his arms.

“The camps — but not all facilities.” Other members of the Council are rising — but before they bury him under their anger, he adds, “There are those even I could have not known about. But I have an idea who could have taken your Prince, and where to find them.”

Anton’s hand grips his. Melvin’s jaws work — then his body falls into the relaxed stance of someone ready to spring into a battle. “Lead, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave it without the rescue.

The rescue party ends up looking like a small army. There are the Troupe — elite bodyguards, barely recognizable in simple tunics and armor instead of their usual skimpy colorful clothes. There is Fran with their sextet and angry ostriches, crossbows and spears at the ready. There are grim-faces women, men, other people whom Melvin doesn’t know — but knows that they are the _furiosi_ , those who had been in raids with Dandolo seasons ago.

There is Niesha, ashen, her gun loaded.

There is Viktor.

Melvin wants to kill him.

The desire is twisting inside him like an acidic worm, and so he keeps away because his single touch, his proximity might shortcircuit the small thing in Viktor’s chest that makes his heart beat.

Anton keeps close to Viktor. They are riding in a small sandsail that Anton himself is piloting. Anton is wearing a Noctian tunic and over it a black leather jacket. Viktor is dressed similarly, though his jacket looks like it has been severely torn and then patched up. They are armed with twin blades and guns.

The thing in Melvin’s gut doesn’t stop twisting.

He suspects that’s why Roy is in the same rover as he is, the Conduit mask serene as ever. To take Melvin’s charge in case Melvin loses control.

Melvin is praying.

He’s praying, wondering whether he should ask Roy for the right words, should haul Fran, anyone. He’s praying to the One who lives in the middle of the Labyrinth, the One whose mark Dandolo bears.

O Lord of the Four Corners, Mother of Shadow, God-Goddess of Canyons, Echo of Time. Protect your son, your Marked. He is needed, he is loved. And if you decide to take him, make it quick and painless. Spare him. I’ll give you anything.

I’ll give you anything.

He closes his eyes, more living charge than human being.

Maybe Abundance was right, after all.

He is nothing but a weapon. Made to kill, and nothing else.

Time means nothing for a weapon, space means nothing. They arrive to a set of small domes, gleaming like half-buried skulls in the last shreds of sunlight.

He doesn’t think.

Death welcomes him with the rush of heat and screams.

The break from the usual is that he is not alone — not in terms of working with others, but in his own _head_. In his own body. There is something… a presence, running along him, steering him, borrowing from him, boosting him.

When he can access vestiges of rational thoughts, he sees why the Aurorans revere the Conduit.

Maybe that is what the One in the Labyrinth is.

And he is aware of Viktor. He blocks out everything irrelevant to survival and to bringing death — but the dry clicks of Viktor’s gun, his low orders, he can hear them _all_.

He can go on forever like this.

He was made for this, only for this and nothing el—

“ _Corvo_.”

He stumbles right into himself under the gaze of green eyes, stumbles forward, his staff cluttering to the floor, and wraps his arms around Dandolo.

“Melvin. I’m alive. I’ll live.” Dandolo’s voice is scratched, and he smells of old blood.

Melvin buries his face on his shoulder, remembering how to speak. “Yes. Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I just needed this out of my system. I'm sorry.


End file.
